


Season of Giving

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Christmas, Cock Rings, First Christmas, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Holmes & Watson's first Christmas at Baker Street.5. Epiphany. Watson's plans for Holmes's birthday go awry. Snowbound fluff & a bit of porn & verse.





	1. Christmas Eve

Given the date and the very late, or rather very early, hour, I had thought that all would be dark and quiet upon my return, but as I crossed the threshold of 221 Baker Street, I heard the crackle of a fire upstairs. Its first kiss of warmth met my cheek and went straight to my heart. The promise of rest and comfort and the hope of a dash of convivial company returned strength to a body much weakened by a long, cold night’s toil.

My feet stumbled but once upon the climb of seventeen steps, and when I at last reached the summit, Holmes’s greeting was as warm as the cosy ambient.

“Happy Christmas, Doctor!” he cried and was, at once, by my side, aiding me in the removal of hat and coat. I returned the salutation, though in a tone much less robust, and added ruefully,

“It is the season of giving, but by my estimation, the most oft found gift in London homes tonight is influenza.”

“You do yourself credit by returning to your profession at the time of year when your services are most needed, and no doubt you afforded some of your patients the precious gift of celebrating next Christmas in the earthly, rather than spirit, realm.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“I am under Mrs. Hudson’s strict instruction to offer you a portion of the Christmas feast that she prepared.”

I smiled a feeble, but heartfelt smile.

“When I am warm,” I said, slowly settling into my chair, “I shall have a bite of it. But, tomorrow, God willing, I shall not be so merciful, and all shall be vanquished.”

“Hear, hear,” said Holmes, then he flew to the fire, stabbing and stirring as if he were chief stoker for the Devil himself. At the sight of his vigour, I was struck by a pang of envy.

“A glass?” he asked when the blaze was at full roar.

“Whiskey. No soda.”

“Ah, children,” he muttered.

My eyes followed him. “Holmes, do you know that one hundred years ago you would’ve been burnt at for witchcraft?”

“It may still happen, my dear man,” he replied, turning to punctuate his statement with a wink, then turning back to spirit and glasses.

I laughed a single, sharp, loud laugh that devolved into a mix of chuckle and cough.

Soon a whiskey was being pressed into my hand.

“To your health, sir,” I said, raising the glass.

“To yours.”

With the first handsome sip well on its way down my throat, I allowed myself the luxury of a long sigh.

“Christmas.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Christmas.”

I ate very little, grieving that I could not do justice to Mrs. Hudson’s fine mince pie, and nursed my drink with uncharacteristic lassitude.

Despite the meal and the whiskey, despite Holmes’s truly Herculean efforts at the hearth and the mountain of blankets he heaped upon me, the cold in my bones would not release its grip. I continued to suffer from fits of shivering.

I finally admitted defeat. There was nothing for it but to retire. I had begun to wrestle myself free from my swaddling when Holmes spoke.

“Perhaps a bath would warm you, Watson.”

I fixed him with a glance, then recovered my composure and snorted. “My dear man, even if I had the desire, coins, and strength to pay a visit, the Northumberland Avenue establishment closes for Christmas.” I gave a thoughtful nod to the clock on the mantelpiece. “We are already a few hours into that blessed day.”

“I was thinking of the homemade article. I might be taking a grave liberty, but since I haven’t any material token of esteem, you might consider it my Christmas gift to you. You’ve made a sacrifice tonight for ‘good will towards all,’ perhaps you would allow me to return the favour, on behalf of one and all.”

I inclined my head and furrowed my brow as if earnestly contemplating the proposal. Then I grinned.

“Well, I’ve nothing for you either, but if you’re keen to be a maid-of-all-work on tonight of all nights, who am I to deny you your Christmas wish?” I teased.

“Excellent,” he said as he clapped his hands together.

* * *

The bath! The bath was bliss. The water was, as I preferred, as hot as any human form could withstand and scented with an oil that I had once described in Holmes’s presence as a favourite of mine.

I sank until I was as submerged as far as physics would allow and leaned my head against the edge of the tub. Then, with my body miraculously restored throughout to its natural temperature, I promptly fell asleep.

* * *

A shock of heat woke me.

I opened my eyes and spied a sea sponge leisurely floating on the surface of the bath and Holmes adding hot water at the far end of the tub.

Holmes’s collar was loosened, his cuffs rolled, his shirt almost liberated from his trousers. He looked, in a word, delectable, and I was not so muddled as to have forgot the risk he’d taken and so decided to venture one of my own.

“You’ve outdone the lads at the Northumberland bath, Holmes.”

There, the line was set. Would he take the bait?

He set the pail on the floor. “All of them?”

Yes, he would.

Our eyes met, and I stifled a gasp. I’d never before seen such hunger, such heat in his gaze, the raw evidence of his need stoked my own.

I nodded. “Every last one.”

Holmes moved closer and reached for the sponge. “At the risk of spoiling my own gift,” he said as he circled behind me.

“Yeah, I need to be about it, don’t I?”

“Would you like some assistance?”

“Only if you rid yourself of your shirt,” I quipped, without looking back, then added, “Wouldn’t want it to get wet.”

I heard the smile when he said softly, “Very practical. Thank you.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw him moving about, then the legs of a low stool scraped the floor behind me.

My prick had been stirring since I’d woke from my nap, but at the sight of the hair on his deliciously bare arm and the feel of the rough sponge being drawn across my chest, it was brought to full mast.

And, oh, his hands!

Holmes’s hand, that composite of thumb, palm, and long, elegant fingers so sensitive in their manipulations of fragile philosophical instruments, was going to be around my prick, wringing pleasure from me in the same way it wrung truth from other objects.

Shamelessly, I bent my knees and lifted my hips in anticipation.

And, as always, Holmes read me like an open book.

“Yes, it was those lingering glances of yours, even in public, even in print, you rash creature, that led me to think my interest might not be entirely one-sided. Of course, I wasn’t certain, even with all my mental faculties applied to the matter, whether interest would translate to willingness to act upon interest. Why, even tonight I wrestled with the recklessness of it all.”

The confession tumbled out of him, words spilling across the nape of my neck.

I turned my head and looked at him. “Why tonight, Holmes?”

A smile tugged at his lips. He shrugged. “It’s the season of giving. And miracles.”

“You bloody romantic,” I growled. Then I twisted, grabbed him by the hair, and crushed my lips to his. I kissed him long, hard, and soundly, removing all doubt as to my interest and my willingness to act upon it and promising all the giving, all the miracle-making that I, though part broken soldier and part weary doctor, could manifest.

When I pulled away, his grey eyes were glazed.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

“Was born today, in the city of David. Or so they say,” I remarked.

He laughed. I laughed. Then he said,

“The seat beside me in Hell isn’t spoken for, my dear man.”

“’Tis now,” I replied, “as surely as the one downstairs before the fire is.” I touched my forehead to his. “Holmes—” I ached for his touch.

“Yes,” he said. “And, I’m afraid, with unsophisticated haste, or the water will cool.”

“Frig me like a whore,” I urged.

He smiled. “As you wish.”

I turned back and sat up. He leaned into me. And when those elegant fingers finally wrapped around my needy prick, I groaned. Holmes’s other hand was searching, exploring, investigating.

As for me, my arms were extended behind me, hands awkwardly gripping head, neck, shoulder, whatever part of him I could reach. My mouth was on his, though, keenly answering his hands’ inquiries with bites and licks and kisses.

His kisses tasted of port and tobacco and mince pie.

Of Christmas.

My kisses told of my desire.

Yes, I liked that. Yes, that, too. All of it. Please.

I was heaving now, in and out of the water, spilling, splashing, like a fish hooked but still wriggling upon the line.

As Holmes’s fingers tightened around my shaft and sped up their stroking, my body tensed. His other hand was cleverly toying my nipple to pebbling.

I closed my eyes and rolled my lips away from his. When I next opened my mouth, I was panting his name and spending myself in the water.

I twisted to face Holmes and gave a gasp of delight at finding him in nothing but drawers. I gripped his buttocks and set about licking his bulge through the thin wool. I ran my tongue along the bony prominence of his hip.

“Watson.”

His hands were on my shoulders. I recoiled, hearing the rebuke in his tone.

“No, no, no,” he whispered. “Not that, never that.” He chased after me, bending to take my head in his hands, peppering my face with tiny kisses. “You are tired and spent and, I fear, a few breaths from collapsing under Queen Mab’s spell. Perhaps we should wait—at least until morning.”

There was reason, logic, prudence in his words, but I am a stubborn fellow.

“Holmes,” I whined, nuzzling his prick as my hands untied his drawers, “just a taste, then, please. It’s Christmas. Just a suckle of the head, no more.” I pulled his drawers down, baring his hip bone for licking, then scrapes of my teeth along his skin. “Or perhaps just a bit more. Give ready likeness to my wicked dreams of you spreading my lips, filling my mouth, brushing the back of my throat.” I teased tufts of wiry pubic hair with the tip of my tongue.

He sighed a defeated sigh, then took his prick in one hand and rested the other hand on the back my head. Then he guided his prickhead between my lips.

I suckled and licked and teased the slit, but pressed for no more than offered, and when I pulled off, offered him a polite ‘Thank you.’

Holmes made no reply. His body trembled, but followed my hands’ lead easily enough as I turned him around and peeled his drawers down to his thighs.

I buried my nose at the top of the cleft of his arse, licking both sides of the valley and drawing a long, wet line up the very centre. I reached around to fondle his bollocks, and he spread his legs invitingly.

“I promise that I won’t press my tongue inside you, Holmes. Not tonight. I won’t taste you, touch you so intimately, won’t probe you so deeply. You’re right,” I bit the round flesh of each of his buttocks in turn, “I’m too weary for that. For opening you with tongue, with fingers. Perhaps tomorrow or another night—”

“My, my,” he interrupted in hoarse voice, “that is, the feast of Epiphany also happens to be the anniversary of my, of my, oh, Watson, of my birth.”

I smiled, spit into my palm, then reached ‘round to grip his stiff shaft.

“Oh, this Christmastide _will_ be a season of giving, Holmes.”


	2. Boxing Day & Childermas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson & Holmes celebrate Boxing Day (December 26) & Childermas/Feast of the Innocents (December 28). Bondage, cock ring, anal plug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the wonderful [Stories for a Stranger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9806768) by Iwantthatcoat.

“Ours is not a partnership of equals,” announced Watson.

His words alarmed me, though I took pains not to betray my concern. I kept my features placid and merely tilted my head in a pose of keen listening.

‘Go on’ said my body, though, for the moment, I dared not speak the words lest a quaver in my voice reveal my true state of mind. I haven’t many points of reference, but I don’t suppose those words would be welcomed by anyone, least of all a new lover, that is, someone who had been in the other’s embrace for the first time no more than twelve hours prior.

After wishing each other long and amorous compliments of the season, Watson and I had retired each to his own bed. We’d both slept very late. With the hour of breakfast long passed, the decision was made to have an early luncheon of the remnants of Mrs. Hudson’s Christmas feast.

I had found the meal equally satisfying upon second consumption, and I was heartened at the sight of Watson tucking into the foodstuffs with gusto. Clearly, with a good night’s rest—and, I flattered myself, an ardent lover’s keen attention—his appetite had returned.

Now my companion was fortifying himself with a whiskey and soda before heading out into the cold afternoon to call upon patients.

“I assist you in your work, Holmes,” he said.

“You are _invaluable_ to my work, Watson,” I replied firmly, allowing reassurance to trounce disquietude from my tone.

“But no police officer or private client crosses the threshold of 221B Baker Street seeking the assistance of Doctor John Watson in solving a puzzle or identifying the culprit of a crime. I aide you in chronicling your cases and, possibly, those chronicles have increased your fame and brought more clients to your door.”

“Of that, I have little doubt. You are also brother-in-arms, someone upon whom I may rely without reservation when there is danger involved in a case.”

“I also, perhaps, stimulate your mind as you contemplate the facets of a problem.”

“Absolutely.”

“Such are my services rendered unto you. Such are the offices I have done for you. I am speaking here of the professional realm, Holmes, not the personal one.”

I could only nod, for I was at loss as to where this discussion was leading or what was expected of me.

“You do not assist me in my work as a doctor,” Watson continued.

“Watson, would you like me to accompany on your rounds this afternoon?”

“Certainly not.” He drained his glass and got to his feet. “I only wished to establish that, in the arena of your profession, it is _I_ who serve _you_. Ours is not one of equals, nor do you serve me.”

I was, in a word, bewildered at the implications of this for the personal, very personal, realm and might have wrought myself into a frightfully anxious state had Watson not turned, and with the softest, warmest, most loving touch, cupped my cheek in his hand and bent to press his lips to mine.

I sighed my relief when the kiss broke.

“I did not mean to distress you, my dear man. Just one of my foolish ruminations,” he whispered. Then he kissed my eyelids and my forehead with such tenderness, I purred and curled into his ministrations with feline affectation. His next words tickled the shell of my ear.

“For the moment, the demands upon me are great, but tomorrow I shall visit Anstruther and see if he will not take my patients for a few days, that we might celebrate your birthday together.” He kissed me again and added, “Unless there is a case, of course.”

“Highly improbable,” I said. It would have to be a very curious case, indeed, to tempt me from the prospect of falling asleep—or waking—in Watson’s arms.

As Watson began swaddling himself in layers of woolen outerwear, my earlier concern returned with force, and this time, I was not ready to combat it. Without thinking, I said,

“Oh, Watson, do—.” But upon hearing the shameful whine in my voice, I flushed, bit my lip, then reached for the nearest newspaper and fussed about noisily with the pages. “Happy Christmas,” I said, with a bit more frost than he ever deserved.

“I shall be careful,” he said with a smile.

“And don’t work yourself to exhaustion as yesterday,” I snapped.

“That, too,” he said. Then he pushed by the newspaper to nip at my cheek, a gesture that was more playful teeth than caressing lips. It was a parting shot that went straight to my groin.

The front door closed, and my lust cooled.

I considered Watson’s words.

_Such are my services rendered unto you. Such are the offices I have done for you._

“Of course!” I cried. “Tomorrow is Boxing Day!”

* * *

My disappointment bordered on disgust.

I had applied my not inconsiderable mental faculties to the matter. I had scoured the metropolis. But by the end of the following day, I had in my possession only a pair of handkerchiefs.

A pair of handkerchiefs!

Monogrammed, yes. Of finest material, yes.

But still, wholly inadequate.

It was the lover who was dissatisfied. The handkerchiefs were perfectly acceptable to the professional who wished to acknowledge the uncompensated efforts of an associate.

But so impersonal, my heart protested.

The handkerchiefs were stashed in my bedroom, wrapped in paper and tied with a simple ribbon, awaiting the proper moment.

Which never arrived.

By the time that Watson had returned from his rounds, Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson were decamped in our sitting room. Theirs was a social call, and so the good bottles and the good cigars were brought out, and we passed a few jovial hours.

They eventually left.

Watson and I shared a moment of silent hesitation, which he broke with a rueful,

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I assured him.

* * *

Breakfast was laid between us, and as soon as Mrs. Hudson was out of the room, I was out of my seat. I flew to my bedroom and returned with the box in my hand.

A larger box was waiting for me.

“Watson?” I frowned. “But, isn’t it you who render the services, you who do the offices?”

“Yes, that’s why I thought today, on Childermas, well, I am taking a huge liberty, and if you aren’t keen, you need only say the word—”

I opened the box.

“Oh, my,” I breathed.

Two lengths of black silk braid and a ring of some sort.

“Too personal?” he asked, his voice weak.

I shook my head. “But, um, your thinking is…?”

“That on this day of boy bishops, the associate might take on the role of principal, that is, the hero might submit to the will, and care, of the faithful companion.”

“Gladly. Willingly.” Wantonly, I added in silence, my prick stirring at the notion. “These are restraints,” I remarked, rubbing the rope between my fingers.

“Yes,” said Watson with a smirk. “I haven’t your mastery of the art of observation, but some things do not escape notice and I have always excelled at anatomical estimation.”

I snorted. “Tell me plainly what you propose.”

“To bind you, pleasure you, then unleash you.”

“At which point, you shall be ravaged,” I vowed.

“The final act is in your hands.”

“It is too, too personal,” I said with a faint smile on my lips. I shifted in my chair, that my uncomfortable seated position might have a sobering effect on my stiffening member. Then I remembered my own gift.

“Oh, bloody hell, Watson. I’m a day behind.” I pushed the box towards him. “This is from the professional Sherlock Holmes to his Bowell, guard, secretary and mind’s whetstone, with sincerest regard.” I sounded like a fool.

Watson unwrapped the gift. “Oh, Holmes.”

The heat in his voice surprised me.

“Yes?” I murmured.

“Yes,” he replied, then rising and extended himself over the table, kissed me soundly, pausing to suck lasciviously at my bottom lip as he fell back to his seat.

“Oh, well,” I said, suddenly pleased with myself. “Yes.”

* * *

Yes, I was tied to the bed. Yes, the ring did fit snugly ‘round my prick. Yes, the former prevented me from caressing Watson as he licked at my wrists, my neck, my nipples. Yes, the latter did prevent me from spending my seed at the first touch of Watson’s lips to my bollocks, my prickhead, my shaft.

“I find this inversion,” I stressed the word, “of roles quite refreshing. We must take advantage of future ecclesiastical prompting.”

“There is the Feast of Asses,” said Watson as he turned away from me and inched backwards towards me.

I laughed.

“This may prove a failure,” he said, and I did wonder if his position on the bed was putting undo stress on his knee joints.

“Even if I surrender my life at this moment, Watson, it has been a success. You have demonstrated quite practically a source of corporal pleasure heretofore known only in theory, and I relish being at your mercy.”

He reached behind himself. “Ah, there.”

A dark object fell upon the bed.

“Watson?”

His intent became clear very quickly.

“Oh, oh, oh,” I panted, then sank my teeth into the ridge of his shoulder.

He released the ring as he impaled himself upon my cock.

“Please, your hands, Holmes.”

I yanked hard, and the black braid gave way. Then my arms were 'round Watson, my hips pushing my prick up into him, filling him with my release.

He mewled with pleasure. He whimpered for more. Then he cried out in pain.

Still linked, I hurled us forward to ease the weight on his knees. Then I mounted him, pumping only the last of my spurts, but thrusting hard and often as if torrents were to come.

He cried out again, this time the noise was muffled by the bedding.

I spat in my hand and reached beneath us to frig him roughly.

* * *

In the end, the bed resembled nothing so much as a besieged city, with rope and instruments; tears in disarrayed linen; stains, damp and thick; and even spots of blood.

Watson met my gaze and shuddered, and we spoke as one,

“The Massacre of the Innocents.”

And then whether he folded me into his arms or I folded him into mine, it didn’t really matter. We were wrapped together, sore and spent and sweat-damp.

“I couldn’t wait, Holmes,” he confessed. “I was thinking about being with you all day. I became so, well, distracted. I couldn’t concentrate on my patients, my surroundings, anything. I ducked into a dark street, and, of course, the fog shrouded me. I wanted you so badly, the images of our coupling held me captive, I surrendered to my lust and took myself in hand in public in the middle of the day!”

His words shocked and roused me. I gripped him tighter, then took one of his hands and brought it to my half-hard prick.

At once, he began to pet me gently. Then he hummed and kissed my lips. “Now, if I find myself in similar need, I shall have one of my handsome handkerchiefs with which to mop up the mess.”

I snorted and kissed his neck. “What a wonderfully filthy thought, Watson, but the next time such an overwhelming urge occurs you must discretely alert me to the fact. Even if you are about in the city, I’ll follow you into your fog-shrouded alley. Catch you with your hand around your gorgeous, utterly suckable prick. Slip behind—"

“I’ll be wearing the plug, stretched, ready for you,” interjected Watson.

“—and bugger you senseless.”

Watson groaned and buried his face in my neck. “You must wait a bit, Holmes. I don’t think I’ll be sitting easy for a day or two.” His hand left my prick and wrapped around my shoulders.

He clung to me. I held him and mused aloud,

“However shall we observe the New Year?”                


	3. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes takes a liberty. No smut, just a New Year's smooch.

The hansom cab rattled along through dark streets, the London of a new day and a new year.  
  
Having considered our ration of liberties already spent, I took none, keeping myself, knees, boots, legs, and billowing overcoat, carefully sequestered on the right side of the cab’s tiny interior.  
  
Neither of us spoke until I declared,  
  
“Rash.”  
  
“Indeed,” agreed Holmes.  
  
“If it had been Hopkins—”  
  
“It was _not_ Hopkins. Lestrade has many admirable qualities. Imagination, he lacks.  Why, he almost invites misdirection!”  
  
We fell back into silence. I listened to clip-clop of hooves until Holmes remarked,  
  
“Your words of earlier, Watson.”  
  
“Oh, the rubbish? Superstition, you said. With a sneer, I might add. On par with Sussex vampires and hell-hounds on the moor, you said.  Condescendingly, I might add. You also—”  
  
“You’re adding quite a bit, aren’t you?” he snapped.  
  
“—made a disparaging comment which made reference to, let's see, paganism, the Church of Rome, and the intelligence of my ancestors.”  
  
“For the last, I apologise.” He waved a hand.  
  
I harrumphed and crossed my arms over my chest.  
  
“But Sussex vampires, moorland hell-hounds, though fictitious, have their power, do they not, my dear Watson?”  
  
“If that girl had been seriously injured—”  
  
“There was a very competent doctor on the scene, was there not?”  
  
“There was. And I don’t suppose she’ll do it again.”  
  
“What, climb a ladder to dust the top of a closed library door whilst the master of the house is being denounced logically, rationally, and, might I add—”  
  
“Now who’s salting the stew, my dear man?”  
  
“—cleverly, as a murderer and jewel thief before the mistress of the house and their children as well as a senior member of Scotland Yard and a very competent doctor—”  
  
“At the stroke of midnight—”  
  
“At the stroke of midnight,” Holmes echoed.  
  
“The timing of it all,” I mused.  “If you _had_ turned to crime, Holmes—”  
  
“Oh, but I did.”  
  
I looked at him for the first time since we’d started our return journey.  
  
“I stole a kiss,” he explained. “Rake, cad, etcetera, guilty as charged.”  
  
I gave a nod. “You stole a kiss in front of a half a dozen witnesses, including a murderer and thief who, at the precise moment that you hurled your flash power and unleashed that explosion, unleashed his own mounting frustration at being caught, red-handed, on the admirable—”  
  
“Imagination-less, but conveniently positioned—”  
  
“—Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. The girl falls off the ladder and screams, contributing to the chaos and—  
  
“—as the old year passed away and the new year was ushered in, I was doing that which I wish to be doing for the rest of the year:  being clever, solving puzzles, showing off and—”  
  
“—taking a liberty.”  
  
“Quite.”  
  
We spoke no more. Upon our return, each retired to his own bedroom with an exchanged grunt of perfunctory well-wishing and leave-taking.  
  
But I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, smiling, with the ghost of a stolen kiss upon my lips.  


	4. New Year's Day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sausage metaphor and public sex.
> 
> The Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, is celebrated on January 1.

“Have you plans, Watson?”

I addressed my question to the folded, monogrammed handkerchief of good quality resting beside the plate of buttered toast, a handkerchief which had made a sudden appearance at the breakfast table, like a minor character in a play, then exited just as suddenly with the swipe of a hand.

“Ghastly day, but I’d like at attend service.”

I nodded. “They’re tearing up a good portion of the road about St. James’s.”

“Yes, that why I thought I’d head up to Our Lady.”

I grunted and reached for a newspaper.

* * *

Even in thick fog, there is little challenge in following someone when you know where he’s going and, for that matter, from whence he’s coming. My brain-attic houses a cabman’s knowledge of the city; this knowledge aided me in determining Watson's most probable route from church to home. Facile, my sleuthhound’s instincts were hardly riled.

Which is not to say that I wasn’t keen, not at all, but mine was the excitement of a different breed, the common cur, not the expert tracker.

I ducked into an alley, and after a nerve-wracking, prick-stiffening four minutes, Watson’s silhouette materialised in the entrance like the spectre _finally_ at the _fucking_ feast.

My blood sang when I realised that I had anticipated the point of rendezvous quite correctly.

Without greeting of gesture or word, Watson and I moved further away from the street, further into the stench and the damp and darkness of the alley.

And as Watson turned and bent forward, gloved hands braced against the brick wall, I heard an old schoolmaster’s voice.

_Assume the position, sir._

I slipped behind him, my prick, my whole body, exalting at the juxtaposition of intimacy and anonymity, of the heady mix of trust and risk.

Heavy wool, light wool were shifted, strained, wrinkled, rippled, and left blessedly curtaining the touch of skin to skin. My leather-gloved finger found the metal ring fastened to the rubber plug.

I swallowed a grunt. My lover had been walking about the metropolis, prepared, ready for the taking. My taking. In this filthy burrow. Where, in any moment, we might be caught at satisfying our shameful, and, yes, criminal, craving.

We’d not removed our hats, so even if we’d been standing upright, back to chest, my mouth could not reach him. I was not close enough to breathe endearments, obscenities, his name, anything upon his skin, into his hair, much less offer him a lover’s kiss or lick.

It was just prick to arsehole. Wiry-haired pelvis to smooth, fleshy, made-for-grasping buttocks. Mating at its most feral.

Fucking. Like dogs.

I removed the plug. Watson hissed.

It was too soon to be doing this.

Nevertheless.

Nevertheless, Watson wanted it. He wanted me to sod him so much that he was willing to abuse himself, hazard ruin, and much more.

All to have my prick inside him, stretching him to bleeding.

Again.

I bit back an oath. And a voiced observation

It was true: I never got Watson’s depths. Even when I’d set out to seduce him on Christmas Eve, with a hapless frigging in the bath, I’d not fathomed that my brave soldier, my noble doctor, my faithful scribe, the whetstone to my mind and keeper of what little heart I possessed, was also, on occasion, quite the little bitch in heat.

And I wanted him, too. Just as badly.

My body urged.

_Then be about it! Quick, man, quick!_

I wrapped the plug in a coarse, unmonogrammed handkerchief and tucked it away in my pocket. Then I was forced to remove one glove. It was a singularly awkward maneuver that violated my innate sense of hygiene and decorum, but with a swift rifling of more pockets and breaking of vial and tearing of pouch, I managed to slick my bare hand with a thick unguent, a substance of my own making whose pleasant scent cut one tiny inroad into the overwhelming putridity of our surroundings. Equally awkwardly, I spread that unguent on my prick.

Cur or not, I would surrender my Watson’s torn hole to spittle alone.

Watson lodged his own gloved fist in his mouth, and I lamented the hisses and groans that I would never hear as my prickhead breeched him.

During the whole incident, he made only one audible noise, and because Watson was Watson, it was ecclesiastically appropriate.

“Mother of God,” he exhaled.

My prick was fully sheathed, my hands gripped the rippling mountains of wool piled between us.

Then Watson began his dance, a whore’s dance, if those much misunderstood and maligned ladies will forgive me the attribution.

He rolled his hips. He arched his back. He clenched and unclenched around me. He wriggled.

I was as lost as a punter in love and spent myself just as freely.

I produced another coarse handkerchief and achieved a cleanliness that fell pityingly short of catlike.

That handkerchief joined the one wrapped around the plug as Watson and I set ourselves to rights.

And I stared, open-mouthed, I’ll admit, as my lover, my beloved, without so much as a look over his Jezail-bullet-shattered shoulder, disappeared into the fog.

But like the hound, or the miserable cur at rut that I was, I followed. And this time, at a trot.

* * *

I caught up with Watson at the Baker Street sitting room and quickly circled him. I removed my hat, that I might lean into him and plea into his ear.

“Please, sir.”

I pulled back to revel in the warmth of that small smile of his, then fell to my knees.

* * *

Watson never stopped petting me, my head, my ears, what portion of my neck his gloved hands could reach, my cheeks, my jaw. His hands were in constant motion as he spread my lips with his prick—stout, beefy, engorged, hot, veined and throbbing, and I, like the street cur who’d found the butcher’s choicest link left unattended, wolfed it down hungrily.

Then Watson’s hands stopped, all save one of the back of my head, and he fed me, guiding his prick, guiding my mouth, showing me silently, but precisely, how he liked to be serviced.

Apt pupil, I took notes: the rhythm of his thrust, deep, then shallow, slow, then quick; how his body tensed in the moments before he almost spent himself and how he was able to draw himself back from the edge, no doubt to prolong his own pleasure; the unnecessary and therefore most charming, caress of warning; the taste and texture of his emission as he lurched and splashed against the back of my throat.

He came to crisis, he withdrew himself from my mouth. I swallowed and, suddenly realising my supply of handkerchiefs wholly inadequate for my new stage of life as the lover of one Doctor John Watson, fretted for a moment.

I needn’t have, of course.

A fine, monogrammed piece of linen came into view, then brushed my cheek.

I shook my head in refusal, not wanting to soil or spoil my gift to him, then I looked up.

Watson was looking down. And he was quite a sight, with his hat still perched on his head and a lovely blush of pink decorating his cheeks.

I must have been quite a sight, too, hair in thorough disarray, mouth bee-stung, face smeared with spittle and seed, but Watson’s gaze held mine in such tenderness, such love, that I was not vexed in the least by my state of dishevelment.

Not vexed, that is, until I heard the front door open and the gruff, unmistakable salutation of a senior officer of Scotland Yard and the even more unmistakable reply of a long-suffering landlady.

“Gregson,” said Watson, fastening his trousers.

I sprang towards my bedroom, crying with jubilation,

“First case of the New Year, my dear Watson!”


	5. Epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson's plans for Holmes's birthday go awry. Snowbound fluff & a bit of porn & verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of this fic. Thanks to all my lovely readers. Best to you all in this new year.

“But Holmes!” I cried for the tenth time, my teeth chattering as I burrowed under the mound of blankets and wrapped my shivering limbs around him—this last act being not borne of any amourous design but rather a simple feral need for warmth.

“But, Holmes, I had such plans for your birthday! I booked a suite at the Savoy for tonight. I had tickets for a lovely concert. I’d planned a robust meal at Simpson’s washed down with something choice in the way of white wines and something even choicer in the way of ex-Army surgeons.”

Holmes held me tight, and when he spoke, his voice was not without its disappointment. “Men make plans, Watson. Providence, however—”

“Drops a train-track-blocking mountain of snow that leaves one and one’s beloved stranded in horrid inns in God-forsaken realms of the Empire named—.”

“Bramley-on-Sea,” Holmes finished. “The case had quite a few features of interest, though. It was a gift, in its own way.”

I harrumphed. “Oh, so you liked the gift that an expert-skier, constable-impersonating, murderous-revenge-seeking, nursery-rhyme-obsessed monomaniac gave you? Wonderful.”

Ignoring my grumble, Holmes continued, “And I thoroughly enjoyed our celebratory skate about the frozen pond despite it putting us too late to catch the eleven o’clock to London.”

“And then the storm came.”

“And then the storm came,” acknowledged Holmes. “Quite sudden and unexpected, that. But there is one element held in common by your fantasy evening and this one, Watson.”

“And what is that?”

“One bed for two.”

“Yes, well, judging by the smell of the place, the other rooms are serving as additional lodging for livestock. I believe we are the only human guests in this place!”

“Now, now, Watson.”

“Has it escaped your powers of observation, Holmes, that our neighbours are a trio of sheep?”

“I was told there was no room,” said Holmes, trying not to laugh, “in the manger.”

“It was good enough for God-made-Man!” I sighed. “And, Holmes, not to spoil things further, I am not especially keen to—"

“The cold does have that effect,” Holmes agreed. He pressed his lips to the side of my head. “But no matter, it is just a day, Watson. Tomorrow will be another day.”

“Tomorrow is the day _after_ your birthday,” I lamented.

“It is you who give that fact significance,” said Holmes, “not I.”

“Well, I’ve still a gift of sorts.” I struggled back out of our cocoon and hurried, cursing and shivering, to my suitcase. I found what I sought and lit a candle. Then I stood and recited,

_“So many hues the intellect._

_How brief the glimpse of well-veiled heart._

_Each fragile instrument subject,_

_resigned to hands of science, art._

_Let mind apply most circumspect_

_or breast rare-beat its joyful part_

_Come hand, hold mine, in trust, respect_

_Kept fast to end from journey’s start.”_

 

When I finished, Holmes clapped. I bowed, returned paper to case, and extinguished the candle. Then I scurried back to bed.

“Poetry, my dear Watson. You spoil me, and unless my faculties deceive me, it’s a rispetto, a form intended to pay respect to one’s beloved, but yours has the added delight of an acrostic pattern spelling out my Christian name.”

I nodded.

He kissed me. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

The ensuing silence was broken by a pair of loud bleating-snores hardly muffled by the far wall.

I clung to Holmes and buried my face in his neck.

He stroked my head soothingly. “Try to get some sleep, Watson. We’ll leave as soon as the trains are running. If we must, we’ll flee by sleigh.”

I fell asleep in Holmes’s arms with a smile on my lips and the sound of bells jingling in my ears.

* * *

 

I woke with Holmes plastered to my back and, save for the frozen tip of my nose, which was peeking out of the covers, thoroughly warm.

I stretched and made to roll towards Holmes, but stopped suddenly.

Holmes’s prick, his hard prick, was nestled between my buttocks.

He grunted and kissed the nape of my neck.

I reached back and stroked his hair, wishing dearly that all the substances that might have served my purposes were not a short, but frigid distance away.

Holmes tut-tutted in my ear and then a warm and, to my sleep-tainted brain, magically slicked hand was wrapping ‘round my half-hard prick.

Three strokes and I was fully erect, arching my back and pressing the length of body into Holmes’s. The hand vanished. I whimpered in protest until I noted a warm wetness being spread along the cleft of my arse.

“You may—” I began.

“Forgive me, Watson, but I haven’t the patience for a proper sodding and after all,” he added with a certain wryness, “it is the day _after_ my birthday.”

I snickered, accepted the flannel pressed into my palm, and let him have his wicked way with _and_ against me.

* * *

And on that day, the day _after_ Holmes’s birthday, the shared moment of pure contentment, of being blissfully spent and breathing in each other’s sighs, was only matched by the sheer exaltation of being drawn by a pair of stalwart mares through banks of thick, white powder.

“I’m reminded of a tune the Yanks sing,” said Holmes, shouting to be heard through all his mufflers.

“DASHING THRO’ THE SNO-O-OW!” I cried with glee as we crested a hill and went barreling down the lee slope.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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